


I'll Meet You in the Anatomy Section

by aohatsu



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: College, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:57:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aohatsu/pseuds/aohatsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But here we are, three months into junior year, and there is a dude sitting in Patrick’s spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Meet You in the Anatomy Section

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peekaboo88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peekaboo88/gifts).



> For [Madelyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/svmadelyn)'s zine challenge, requested by [Wendy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peekaboo88), plotted/betaed with the help of [Madelyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/svmadelyn) and [Bekka](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hecklin/profile), as always. <3
> 
> This fic is really kind of campy and ridiculous and has no point beyond, like, Kaner, in a library, just as a warning. Oh! Also: I'm sure Chicago public transportation is lovely, and Chicago University is completely made up--although University of Chicago is a real school and their mascot is the Phoenix. I claim creative license for the majority of everything that doesn't fit with real life, 'k?

Patrick lives on campus, because while the dormitories are fairly expensive, let’s face it, living in an apartment would be much, much worse. For starters, there’d be all the extra bills, like utilities and, whatever, plumbing, plus there’s no way he’d be able to afford it on his own, so he’d have like three annoying roommates he’d struggle to get money from each month. At least in the dorms he only has one annoying roommate, and so there’s no exchanging of money unless he’s dumb enough to bet on a hockey game or something. 

Oh! And if he lived in an apartment, he’d have to get a car, because public transportation in Chicago might be better than Buffalo’s, but that isn’t really saying much. Once you’ve seen a dude pee in a corner on the red line, you’re good, really. Patrick took his tour of the city during the college road trip he’d had, summer after senior year in high school, and he definitely hadn’t chosen Chicago University because of its city’s fine bus system or dedication to public decency.

This way he can sleep longer and still get to his classes on time, and hold a part-time job without wanting to kill himself every time finals start their approach. And hey, he’s only been sexiled twice in his entire college career so far, and it’s already a couple months into his junior year. If he’d had three roommates instead of the one, he’d have ended up sleeping in the hallway six times instead. 

It’s simple math.

He’d gotten the work study job before he’d even taken his first class, because being able to feed himself had sort of depended on it, and he figured he’d be spending enough time in the library already—why not get paid for it? Putting books away isn’t that hard, really, but the Dewey Decimal System isn’t all it’s cracked up to be once you find _Homosexuality in Ancient Greece—with pictures!_ where _Biology 101_ is supposed to be. (And he doesn’t mean just one copy—he means the entire section was switched. College kids suck.)

It takes about three months for Patrick to start buying ramen noodles in bulk, actually use his glasses case on a regular basis, know his morning coffee girl by name (Sheila), have his little sister on speed dial for particularly difficult days (so basically always), have his roommate trained to stay on his side of the room at all costs, and, of course, to earn a spot in the back of the library that none of the regular visitors touch, because it is, definably, his spot.

It’s a little nook-type area, squished between the advanced physical therapy section and a bunch of old newspaper clippings that nobody ever really looks at except the occasional journalism major. What makes the spot special though, is the ridiculously large, kind of worn and faded red beanbag chair that is far more comfortable than any chair has any right to be. He’s technically not even supposed to sit there during work hours, but it’s the best spot in the entire building to crack open a book and study. If he tries to read his exam books behind the legitimate counter, he goes cross-eyed within twenty minutes. 

He still ends up working most of the time though—putting books away, checking books out, helping the poor innocents that are lost and confused and wondering why they thought college was a viable life choice in the first place. But Patrick’s college is just lame enough that the majority of the student body doesn’t bother gracing the library with a second look, and he can go hours with absolutely nothing to do, so fuck sitting behind the counter when the cozy beanbag chair is just calling his name.

Really, considering how much studying Patrick’s sophomore year professors expect him to do, the beanbag is sacred.

But here we are, three months into junior year, and there is a dude sitting in Patrick’s spot.

He kind of looks like he needs it though; he’s dressed in shorts and flip-flops and a Phoenix hockey sweatshirt, which is a terrible combination even before remembering that it’s October, and getting fairly cold outside, because, hello, Chicago—not that Patrick can really talk about fashion, or whatever; Erica would choke on her own laughter if she knew he was judging somebody for a pair of flip-flops—but also, his hair is kind sweaty gross and his face is all red like he’s been exerting himself somehow—questionable, in a library—and he’s frowning so hard at his textbook that Patrick momentarily has to wonder if he’s trying to make the book combust spontaneously.

It’d be a better excuse than your dog eating your homework, probably—spontaneous combustion is a thing, he saw it on MythBusters.

Newbies don’t tend to stick around for very long, not in the library. If you’ve never been a studier before, cramming before some stupid test they forgot about until the day before isn’t going to turn them into one. They show up in droves about a week before midterms, and then again before finals, and Patrick’s a good enough person to magnanimously allow them the use of his spot, because, let’s face it, the slapping themselves awake and the hyperventilating—he’s been there.

Assignment-induced panic attacks are not fun.

But—there is a point to all of this. And the point is, this guy is defying Patrick’s knowledge of newbies, because it isn’t the first time he’s been in the library this week. In fact, he was here the day before, and if Patrick’s co-worker is to be believed, the day before that too. And he’s sitting in Patrick’s spot, like he’s getting _comfortable_ there.

Patrick’s behind the counter right now—has been for three hours, because there’s a group of girls that have been asking him to find them a different book roughly every ten minutes for that long, and apparently they can’t manage it themselves even though it’s not that hard to realize that the socialism focus books will be in the sociology section, but whatever, it’s Patrick’s job, and he can deal. 

Except that every time he has to walk past the physical therapy section to get to the sociology section, he sees the dude sitting in his chair, with his dumb clothes and his dumb face, and Patrick can’t help but be jealous. He’d like to sit down and do his psych homework already—he has at least an hour’s worth of reading to get through before he’ll get to climb into bed.

The girls finally leave after checking out a total of three books and giving Patrick like thirty more to put back on the shelf. He grabs his book and settles down at a table, because at least that’s better than reading behind the counter. He has to shove his glasses up the bridge of his nose when they start slipping, but gets drawn into the discussion of morally dubious insane asylums in the forties relatively easily.

When he comes out of it—and Patrick actually doesn’t want to know this much about shock therapy, gross—it’s because of a fairly obviously fake cough coming from his right. He looks up, and flip-flops guy is standing there, a couple of books in-hand.

To be completely fair, not all of Patrick’s animosity is hailing from the fact that this guy was sitting in Patrick’s spot. Lots of kids do that, it’s technically public space, even if it is Patrick’s favorite spot and his regular library cohabitants know it and leave it for him. A good portion of it is… well, because he’s Jonathan Toews. 

The college hockey sweatshirt wasn’t exactly random, and Patrick recognized the guy pretty much the minute he walked in the library, because who doesn’t recognize the captain of the college hockey team that’s been losing pretty spectacularly for the past, oh, five games? And before that, it was three, and before that—well, no, that was the beginning of the season, so they’ve just been sucking all season long.

The game last night had been particularly horrifying.

Florida State—and man, Florida shouldn’t be able to beat anyone at college hockey, ever—had pretty much wiped the ice with them. Patrick had flinched just watching the game from the stands. Florida just barreled right through Toews’ line, like they weren’t even there. None of their passes were connecting, and if they did connect, it was with a guy in the wrong color jersey. Chicago ended up losing in a shutout, four to zip.

Patrick had been vaguely embarrassed to wear his school sweatshirt on the walk home, and the only reason he hadn’t taken it off was because it was legitimately that cold outside. Seriously, how hard is it to misdirect to the right, and then deke to the left? It’s not like the team hadn’t had chances out there, they just couldn’t seem to grab onto them and, fuck, run with them, do something with them, put them on the board. 

It’s frustrating as hell, and Patrick’s not even on the team.

So, while Patrick should say, “Ready to check out?” and politely check the dude out his books, and kick him out of the library, what he actually does is let out a long sigh and say, “Last night’s game sucked, man,” in as sad and depressed a tone as he can manage while looking up, straight at Toews’ face.

Toews—who before this moment had been looking kind of awkward, to be honest—looks marginally surprised before his face mutates into a deep scowl, and Patrick’s pretty sure the whole ‘if looks could kill’ metaphor applies here.

If only that worked on the ice, then they’d be set.

“We had a bad game,” Toews says, finally, kind of gruff. 

“Dude. That was an _atrocious_ game,” Patrick corrects, and has to push his glasses up his nose again. “None of your passes were connecting for shit—“

“What the hell—“

“—and you need to learn how to re-direct the puck, like—if it’s not working in the position you’ve got it in, switch your position, don’t just go for it anyway—“

“Shut the fuck up, Jesus,” Toews says, dropping his books on the table with a loud thump. “You’re kidding, right? What am I supposed to do, magically move the puck? Because there’s usually a fucking guy from the opposite team there to steal it, alright? You can say what you want, _it’s not that easy_.”

“It’s easy if you’re any good at it,” Patrick says back, voice raising in volume to match Toews’—and holy shit, he didn’t actually mean to start an argument, but another kid who’s been slumped over a keyboard in the computer area for the last two hours—the only other kid still in the library this late, actually—is butting in, tentatively asking, “Uh, you guys know this is a library… right?”

“Shut up,” Patrick says, and waves a hand at him. The kid grabs his bag and starts heading for the exit—which, rude, it’s not like he and Toews were arguing that bad. The kid should see Patrick and his little sister go at it. Now that’s when you need to duck for cover; just ask his grandparents.

“What do you know about hockey anyway?” Toews asks, grouchy. “You work in a library.”

“Whatever,” Patrick shrugs, standing up. “I know enough to know you guys aren’t playing at the level you could be.”

“Yeah, well, I’m trying, alright? Jesus. I’m barely getting any sleep as it is, I don’t understand half the shit in this dumb book and the team isn’t mesh—it’s none of your business anyway, fuck.” The guy looks seriously frustrated, and tired as hell. Kind of pissed too, but Patrick figures that’s normal, considering.

Which, when Patrick thinks about it, adding hockey to an already busy college schedule has to be pretty damn difficult.

“When are your midterms?” Patrick asks, reaching out to grab the pile of books Toews had dropped on the table.

Toews’ face does this weird thing—he kind of turns red and looks dumb as fuck—but he grabs the books back from Patrick, like he’s protecting them. “It’s fine, I’m just behind,” he says, gruffly, and clearly lying through his teeth.

Patrick huffs out a laugh, and then again when Toews scowls at him again, and looks ready to storm his way out of the library altogether.

“Man, I work in the library,” Patrick explains, and sits back down pointedly looking at the chair next to him. “You are not the first jock that’s come in here after realizing he’s screwed around all semester and can’t pass his classes.”

“I’m not failing my classes,” Toews denies, but he’s sitting down anyway. Score.

“That’s why you’re spending your oh-so-rare free time in the library then?” Patrick asks, blankly, and just gets a huff in return. “Look, you can let me help you so that you can concentrate more on hockey and maybe win a game or two this season, or you can keep struggling like a damn martyr and probably still fail your midterms.”

“What do you even know about anatomy?” Toews asks, like he thinks Patrick’s blowing off steam or something.

“Uh, more than you,” Patrick says, gesturing to the textbook that Toews has just picked up, “since I took that class last year.”

Toews seems to be struggling with something—a failed sense of pride, maybe, Patrick thinks, but eventually he bites out a, “Fine, whatever,” and Patrick ends up setting his psych text aside just to help Toews memorize the names of body parts that have nothing to do with hockey. Ten minutes in, Patrick announces that they need flash cards, and Toews lets his forehead bang into the table with a groan.

They only get distracted once—okay twice—when hockey manages to slip its way back into the conversation. Patrick just feels it’s his responsibility to point out that Toews’ line’s right wing is missing his cues on the ice, and Toews brings up the Habs all on his own, which leads Patrick to insulting Canada and it sort of goes from there until they have to force themselves back to studying the human body, Toews—“Jesus, just call me Jon,”—getting this chastised kind of look on his face that makes him look way more attractive than the scowling does, unfortunately for Patrick.

Patrick’s not entirely sure how honest-to-God studying ends up fascinating enough that he misses when the clock hits midnight—or eleven, technically—but he doesn’t realize it’s 11:24 until Jonny (because it makes him huff and roll his eyes in fake irritation, which is the best reaction Patrick’s gotten from him yet) yawns and leans back in his chair, and Patrick glances at the clock to see what time it is. 

“Shit,” he says, before Jonny’s yawn becomes contagious. “I was supposed to lock the doors half-an-hour ago.”

“Oh, right,” Jonny says, grabbing up all of his stuff and shoving it into his bag haphazardly—his gym bag, Patrick notes with distaste. Actually, the vaguely distressed noise he makes must be loud enough for Jonny to hear, because he looks up, quirking an eyebrow. 

“That’s gross,” Patrick says, standing up and walking to the counter, and then fumbling for the keys under the register. “Books don’t belong with your gear, man. No wonder you can’t win a game.”

“Oh God, shut up, it’s not like I’ve got dirty laundry in my bag—“

“Thank fuck,” Patrick interrupts, and then holds up the keys and says, “Got ‘em,” because gross. He doesn’t want to think about where the books that he has to touch actually go during their short visits outside the safety of their shelves.

Jonny ends up waiting for him on the outside steps while Patrick closes up. It only takes like ten minutes, tops, because he’s got it down since freshman year, but he’s still a bit surprised when he turns around from locking the door to come face-to-face with Jonny, all red cheeks in his sweatshirt and dumb shorts and flip-flops.

“Dude, it’s October,” Patrick says, tucking the keys into his pocket, “wear some sneakers or something.”

“It’s not cold,” Jonny just says, because apparently he’s cold-blooded, like all Canadians are, but then he adds, almost hesitantly, “but, uh, you’re up for doing this again, right?”

“Sure,” Patrick shrugs. “I’m here all the time. I mean, I work here, so.”

Jonny’s face turns into this ridiculous fucking scowl for a second—Patrick’s starting to wonder if it’s his default expression or what—but then he says, “Yeah, that’s cool, but I mean, we could hang out. Watch a Habs game.”

Patrick hovers where he’s been slowly starting the trip down the steps that lead away from the library and off towards his dorm. He looks back up. He thinks, possibly, that Jonny is trying to ask him out or something. Even though that’s the most backasswards way to ask somebody out that Patrick’s ever heard. The thing is, Patrick’s not entirely sure Jonny isn’t just that socially inept, and could honestly just be asking to hang out with a fellow guy who likes hockey. He waits for a second, letting the moment stretch on in silence as Jonny starts looking more and more awkward. 

Just before he can open his mouth to say something, Patrick asks, “Uh, just to clarify—this is you asking me for my number, right?”

Jonny hesitates, but then straightens up and says, “Yes, Patrick, this is me asking you for your fucking number.” He finally loses the scowl though, and he’s kind of smiling—Patrick likes it, and says, “Yeah, okay.”

Patrick pulls his phone out and ignores the new message from Erica he’d missed, going straight to the new contacts tab instead, typing in Jonny’s number as soon as Jonny says it, and then sending off a quick text so that Jonny has his too. 

“I’m not watching fucking Montreal,” Patrick adds, as they descend the steps together, after they trade numbers. “I’d watch Chicago though.”

“You’re kidding—Chicago’s last in its conference. They’re terrible.”

“I like underdogs,” Patrick shrugs. “I’d have to, going to this school.”

“Whatever, the season’s just starting,” Jonny says, sounding confident. Patrick grins into the neck of his coat.

“Do you need a ride?” Jonny asks, nodding to the only car left in the lot, a silver Camry.

“Nah,” Patrick says, stretching out his arms. “I’m close enough to walk. You probably should too, the exercise might help you score a point or two in tomorrow’s game.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Maybe.”

 

Patrick avoids the word ‘date’ like the plague during the next four days, even though he and Jonny must trade twenty texts trying to figure out when they’re both free to go on one. But if Jonny doesn’t have a game, then Patrick has to work, and Patrick refuses to count study sessions in the library as a real date. Not that he’s using the word date, but still. And those are still happening, at least: Jonny heads over after practice if he doesn’t have a game, and they’ll argue about anatomy and psychology and whatever else. Hockey comes up pretty frequently, but so do things like basketball, curling and sombreros, so it’s basically an open line for conversation—in-between Patrick actually, you know, working.

It’s fun, but Patrick’s kind of stupidly excited when he wakes up Saturday morning. He doesn’t work, Jonny doesn’t have to be at the arena for his game until five, and it only took four days to agree to meet up outside the library, and then head out to get lunch together. 

He calls Erica after getting dressed, just for an opinion. He really doesn’t have a good head for, like, clothes, especially clothes that look good on him—and she ends up ordering him around from roughly five-hundred miles away, and then puts Grandma on the phone to ask him how his studies are going, and then Grandpa, to ask the exact same questions (do they not talk to each other?), and Patrick ends up running to the library, ten minutes late. 

He’s pretty sure his hair is messed up, even though he’d spent an extra five minutes on it after his shower earlier. 

Jonny’s already there, sitting on the steps with his phone in-hand, but he looks up when Patrick comes to an abrupt halt in front of him, panting a little. Okay, so he should probably do the whole running thing more often, but. Jonny breaks out into a smile, and Patrick can’t help smiling back, even though he’s still leaning over, hands on his knees and breathing hard. 

“You alright there?” Jonny asks, almost but not quite laughing.

“Fuck you,” Patrick says, and then, “Sorry,” when he catches his breath. “My grandparents wouldn’t get off the phone.”

“It’s fine,” Jonny says, standing up. “Mine are the same way. Are you sure you’re okay though? You look like you need to sit down—rest a minute.”

“Seriously, fuck you. Not all of us play hockey,” Patrick says, letting Jonny lead him over to his car. 

“You do though, don’t you?” Jonny asks, pulling out his keys. He looks up at Patrick’s blinking silence and adds, “You know too much about it not to play, Patrick.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, slowly. “I used to, I guess.” 

They get in the car, and Patrick sticks his hands in front of the heater before buckling up. 

“But not anymore?” Jonny keeps on, like he’s genuinely interested. 

Patrick shrugs, leans back in the passenger seat. “Yeah, I mean, it just—didn’t work out.”

He probably could’ve kept it up if he’d been willing to work harder, but he hadn’t been willing to leave his family when he was fourteen and he’d been invited to train with a higher-level team, and he’d had opportunities in Buffalo, he had, it was just—

He just hadn’t wanted it enough to make it worth it, all the other things he would have had to give up, that would’ve gone on a backburner. Not to mention how expensive hockey got to be—his grandparents couldn’t afford it, and even if they could, getting him to all the games and tournaments and practices would’ve been hard, especially with Erica in tow, and he couldn’t just leave Erica. 

Leaving for college when she was sixteen was hard enough; they’d both cried like babies for days. He can’t imagine having left her when she was _twelve_ , when he was fourteen, Jesus. Just thinking about it makes him cringe.

The ride is kind of quiet—not exactly uncomfortable, but maybe a little awkward, if Patrick’s being honest. Despite having lived in Chicago for a little more than a year now, he hasn’t actually gotten around the city all that much. He’s done some of the tourist stuff, and he’s been to a Blackhawks game—alright, two, but he tries to forget the second one ever happened because it was so depressing—and gone shopping when a couple friends dragged him out to a strip mall, and a few other times like that, but most of his life in Chicago has been spent on campus, what with not having a car and not being a fan of the public transport system in general. 

Jonny turns into what sort of looks more like an open space park than any sort of strip where they could get lunch, and Patrick glances at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“What?” Jonny says, defensively. 

Patrick shrugs. “Nothing.”

When they get out of the car, just to the side of an actual park, Jonny pulls out a backpack and shows Patrick the contents—sandwiches and Gatorades, Jesus—before grinning and saying, “So if I gave you a head start, do you think you could reach the picnic area before me?”

Torn between disbelief and insult, Patrick surveys the distance instead of outright laughing in Jonny’s face. It’s not all that far, really, but then, Patrick ran out of breath just running from his dorm to the library not half-an-hour ago, and Jonny’s probably one of those guys who runs for fun or some shit. Plus, it’s not exactly warm outside.

“What do I get if I win?” Patrick asks, finally. 

“Food,” Jonny says back immediately.

“What!” Patrick yells, outraged. “You can’t withhold the food, man, that’s off limits.”

“Take it or leave it,” Jonny says, smug, crossing his arms like some sort of drug dealer, but with sandwiches.

“You’re a terrible date,” Patrick says, and then, “fine,” because fuck, he’d been avoiding using that word. 

Jonny is kind grinning though, and keeps it up right up until Patrick gets in stance and then takes off—and Jonny must not actually give him much of a head start, the asshole, because he catches up before Patrick can even lay a hand on one of the wooden picnic tables. 

They’d forgotten to decide what Jonny got if he won, but Jonny shrugs and just starts dumping the food out on the table instead and says, “You’ll just owe me one.”

“I don’t think I like that idea,” Patrick says, contemplatively looking at Jonny. 

But it only takes a few minutes between eating and chirping each other to get onto more important topics—like the Montreal vs. Buffalo game last night, which Buffalo had, unfortunately, lost in overtime, a fact that Jonny mentions gleefully when Patrick says he’s from Buffalo. And alright, admittedly Patrick’s no fan of the Habs, but the Sabres are _sacred_ , same as his spot in the library. He says it as a joke, grinning, but Jonny stops insulting them after giving Patrick a weird look, and Patrick has to spend a minute wondering if it actually came out that way—like he meant it to, like a joke.

It’s just that the last memory he has of his father is when they went to a Buffalo Sabres game together. It had been fun—they’d worn real jerseys and Patrick had stained his with the cheese from the nachos, and he’d ended up falling asleep in his dad’s lap in the last period, only waking up when the entire stadium had stood up screaming at a last-minute goal that won Buffalo the game. 

Patrick’s parents and two youngest sisters had died in a car crash the morning after, while Patrick and Erica had both been at school. It’s—alright, so it’s not just that the Sabres are sacred or whatever, but they’ll always be Patrick’s team, even if they’re sucking enough to lose to fucking Montreal and the playoffs are nothing but a distant dream. They were his dad’s team, so.

It’s not like Jonny knows any of that though, Patrick thinks, and he shakes his head, says something chirpy about the Habs and everything goes back to normal. Jonny makes them race back to the car too—but Patrick gives up about halfway there and lets Jonny do his obnoxious, “Come on, Pat, don’t give up so easy,” while he jogs in place like an asshole.

Actually—it kind of does make Patrick want to try harder, and when they’re just a few feet from the car he jumps into speed and runs for it, grabbing onto the passenger door before Jonny manages to, and then laughs when Jonny calls him a cheater. 

“You’re coming to the game, right?” Jonny asks, as soon as they get back into the car. 

“Obviously,” Patrick says, “unless you’re planning on losing—”

“I’m cashing in the favor you owe me. You’re not allowed to make fun of my team anymore,” Jonny says hurriedly.

“Really?” Patrick asks, mildly. “You’re wasting it on that? When you could have _anything_?”

Patrick hadn’t meant it to, but after he says it, the silence in the car gets awkward incredibly quickly. Jonny’s looking at him oddly, and Patrick feels the back of his neck heating up, ready to backpedal until Jonny says, “Yeah,” and leans over in his seat, which can’t be comfortable because making out in cars never is, no matter what the movies say, but he’s kissing Patrick anyway, pressing his lips against Patrick’s, glancing off his chin before Patrick tilts his head and corrects the angle, sucking in a breath of air at the same time. He leans up into it, heart going a mile a minute, clenching his fist, and kisses back for all he’s worth, because—because fuck, _fuck_.

He’s never really—

He feels stupid and happy and nervous, and can’t help the soft noise that escapes when Jonny’s teeth scrape against his bottom lip. Jonny pulls back an inch, and they break apart. Patrick’s entire body is warm all over even though it’s still pretty chilly outside, even though he was complaining about the cold not ten minutes ago.

“Uh,” Jonny says, like he’s not sure what to say, but he’s still looking at Patrick, eyes wide like he’s been caught with his hands in the cookie jar. 

“So—“ Patrick starts, and then stops, because he doesn’t know what to say either, not really.

Jonny clears his throat, suddenly, and looks away. His hands are shaking a little as he settles back into his seat, circling his fingers around the steering wheel, and Patrick can tell how desperate he is to sound casual when he says, “I didn’t want you to owe me that, I guess.”

It takes a minute for Patrick to shake himself out of it—to stop being frozen and stunned and surprised, and to mutter, “Oh, Jesus,” and push himself up in the seat, grabbing at Jonny and pulling him over until they can kiss again, the gear shaft digging painfully into his hip. Jonny’s hands come up to grab him, to kiss him back just as hard, and _Jesus_ , Patrick could probably do this forever. 

Jonny somehow manages to score a goal off of Milton that night, and Chicago U pulls off their first win in five games. Patrick heads home with the rest of the crowd of students, but he texts Jonny halfway home, grinning, _pretty sure that was all me, dude_.

Jonny doesn’t answer right away—Patrick gets back to his dorm before his phone alerts him to a new message, _sorry, did I miss you out on the ice?_ , and he’s laughing so hard when he’s getting into bed that his roommate tosses a pillow at his face and groans, “Gross, man.”

Jonny texts again a second later, asking _did you leave already?_ and Patrick almost feels bad that he hadn’t stuck around, but he has class at six in the morning; it’s already pretty unlikely he won’t sleep through his alarm. If he’d stayed after the game to see Jonny, he definitely wouldn’t be making it to class.

_figured you’d be busy + i need sleep cuz some of us like passing our classes_

_oh, yeah. see you tomorrow?_

_yeah_ , Patrick sends off, and then grins into his pillow. 

 

Dating Jonny is not actually as easy as it seems.

For starters, Patrick finds out why he’s failing all his classes: because ninety-nine percent of Jonny’s free time is spent on the ice, or in the gym, and studying apparently takes a backseat to hockey, as does the whole dating thing. Which, okay, Patrick sort of gets. Jonny’s only really going to Chicago U because he promised his parents he’d give the whole college thing a go before heading to the NHL, since apparently he’s good enough that he was actually in the NHL draft when he was eighteen. And, uh, was drafted. To the Chicago Blackhawks. Third overall. 

Patrick’s not actually sure how he didn’t know that since it feels like common on-campus knowledge once he finds out.

But then, Jonny only tells him a couple weeks into knowing each other, when he’s trying to get Patrick to stop studying and to pay attention to him instead, like he thinks being NHL draft-worthy is important enough to sacrifice his essay on electrolytes. Which, well, Patrick does end up turning around so that they can make out for an hour before Jonny has to head out for practice, but it definitely wasn’t because of Jonny’s hockey talents—more like because he’s trailing his mouth down Patrick’s neck and spreading his hand out over Patrick’s abdomen, under his shirt. It makes Patrick suck in a breath, and it’s just, concentrating gets difficult after that.

The majority of their dates end up taking place in the library—and they do actually have to study, because Patrick’s financial aid depends on his GPA staying above a 3.5 at all times, and like previously mentioned, Jonny is failing his classes—or at the hockey rink, which Patrick thinks is debatable as counting for a date, because he’s in the stands, and Jonny’s on the ice, and it just shouldn’t count if you can’t actually talk to each other. 

Or make out.

So really, dating Jonny is not as easy as it seems.

But it’s kind of worth it anyway, Patrick’s pretty sure. When he does get to spend time with Jonny, he’s happy, like the pieces are falling together. The biggest problem is that he’s talking about hockey all the time—and attending games, and even a few practices, and he’s met the guys on Jonny’s team, and it’s like the more he thinks about it, the more he _misses_ it. 

Patrick was good when he was playing; his coaches loved him, and he loved being out there, skating and pushing a puck and making it go exactly where he wanted it to. He regrets stopping, now, even though it made sense at the time, and it still makes sense when he remembers why he quit. He just doesn’t know how it could’ve worked if he hadn’t, and maybe that’s because he was a scared teenager who didn’t want to leave his sister, his grandparents—he’d already lost his parents, and Jessica and Jaqueline; he couldn’t just _leave_ , couldn’t—

But now he’s at college, and isn’t that the same thing? He’d only had a few more years with his family, and he’d still had to leave. 

Maybe he _could_ have managed to play hockey in a real league if he’d given it everything he had.

It’s not like he can change the past though, even if he wanted to.

But he ends up staying up, staring at his ceiling when he should be sleeping, and all he’s doing is imagining it—imagining being out there on the ice with Jonny, helping to win games. He’s not really big, as far as hockey players go, or tall, but he had skills that he thinks could’ve overcome that if he’d been able to make himself really try. 

He still loves hockey, is the thing, but it’s starting to hurt a little, when he realizes he hasn’t even put on his skates in over a year—that he didn’t even bring them to Chicago with him, instead leaving them stuffed in his closet back home in Buffalo, next to the rest of the shoes he hadn’t brought. 

 

He hasn’t seen Jonny in three days when he comes into the library, kicking the snow off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket. Patrick rolls his eyes because Jonny even looks good doing that, something so _ordinary_ , and it isn’t fair at all. Patrick has to help a kid check out his books before he can talk to him, but Jonny waves as he walks in a straight line to the beanbag chair—which Patrick has fully explained is _his_ spot, and Jonny just proceeded to squish his fat ass into it as much as possible because he’s a dick.

Patrick waits long enough for the kid he was helping to leave, the bell on the library doors signaling his exit, before he walks over to where Jonny’s plopped down on his favorite chair. Jonny just looks smug—he hasn’t even bothered to pull out a textbook yet. Patrick huffs and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, staring pointedly. 

“What?” Jonny says. “You can always sit next to me.”

“Your ass is way too big for there to be room,” Patrick scoffs. Jonny reaches out and grabs his hand anyway, tugging him forward. Patrick tries to root his feet to the ground, says, “Our combined weight’ll pop it—” and “Jonny, I will kill you if you hurt that chair,” when Jonny starts _pulling him down onto his lap_.

Patrick scrambles to land anywhere but Jonny’s lap. Not that he wouldn’t be up for that, in another situation, but not on the beanbag, it’s just not going to happen. He swerves to the right and his ass lands on the floor, painfully, but at least Jonny’s still hanging onto him and the chair ends up getting pushed off to one side, making Jonny careen to the right, right on top of Patrick.

Well, mostly on top of.

He almost thinks Jonny did it on purpose, because he’s grinning through his teeth and leaning down to kiss Patrick before Patrick can even realize what’s happening. Patrick kisses back for a second, until Jonny’s fingers slip under his shirt and shock him out of it. “You’re freezing,” Patrick complains, and starts trying to shove Jonny off of him.

Jonny groans and rolls just enough that Patrick can sit up.

“Also,” Patrick says, because he has a work ethic, really, “totally not appropriate touching in the workplace.”

Jonny lets his head fall backward with an annoyed sigh, landing on the chair. “Come on, Pat,” he whines.

And it’s just—it’s super unlikely anyone is going to come to the library in the next twenty minutes, because it’s snowing like crazy outside, it’s a Friday, and for some reason kids prefer computers to books these days, especially at 10:40 at night. Other than him and Jonny, the library is already empty.

He should probably care that it only takes him a total of two minutes to shove Jonny over and jump up, grabbing the keys and going to lock the library doors—from the inside—but he doesn’t, not really. Jonny’s eyebrows are high when Patrick gets back, and he’s standing up, leaning against the bookshelf. 

Kind of defensive, Patrick folds his arms over his chest and says, “You’re the one who started—”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, quirking his mouth, “so come here.”

Kissing in the library is different. Patrick’s not exactly afraid of getting caught, see: locked doors, but it’s still vaguely… public, and if he did get caught, he’d probably get fired. _Probably_ because Patrick has serious doubts as to whether he’s the first student employee to ever take advantage like this, let alone the first _student_. He’s had to break up a couple heated make out sessions himself, so he knows that one for a fact. 

Jonny’s hands are warming up, crawling under the fabric of his t-shirt, pushing it up and exposing Patrick’s bare skin to the room he works in for a good portion of the day, and Patrick’s panting into Jonny’s neck already, pressing his hips against Jonny’s thigh because he can’t help it. 

Jonny’s the one with his back pressed up against the bookshelf, and Patrick breaks off the kiss in order to laugh when his huge ass knocks four books off the shelf with consecutive thumps against the ground. Jonny turns them around, then, and the bookshelf digs into Patrick’s back instead, but Jonny’s kissing him again, biting into his mouth. 

Jonny pulls away, and Patrick barely catches himself before he lets out a loud, embarrassing whine, and God, he’s so hard in his jeans already that he can hardly keep from just shoving Jonny on the floor and climbing on top of him. But Jonny’s just tugging urgently at the button Patrick’s jeans, tugging them open and adjusting their positioning so that he can shove his hand inside Patrick’s jeans, wrap his fingers around Patrick’s dick.

Patrick bites off a groan and shoves up into Jonny’s hand, clutching at Jonny’s shoulder, because in no way is he holding himself up right now. “Shit, shit,” Patrick pants, breathing as hard as if he’d just run a mile, and squeezing his eyes shut tight as he’s assaulted by the feeling of Jonny’s fingers tightening around his dick, jacking him off hard and fast and dry, but for Patrick’s own pre-come. 

Jonny’s mouth is right up against Patrick’s ear, and it’s the only reason he hears the little noises Jonny’s making, like he’s turned on just by watching Patrick start coming loose. Patrick turns his face, pressing his mouth against Jonny’s, kissing him until he comes like that, panting into Jonny’s mouth, legs shaking. 

It takes a few seconds to blink away the feeling that always comes after an orgasm, almost too much, euphoric and so, so intense, but he can feel Jonny’s hard on pressing against his hip. Patrick doesn’t bother trying to stay standing when his legs aren’t really cooperating—he can get Jonny off just as well on his knees. 

He pushes Jonny back until it’s Jonny against the bookshelf again, and tugs at his zipper until he can pull Jonny’s khaki’s down enough that he can pull out his cock, so hard already, curving a little to the left and flushed red to match how hot it feels under Patrick’s palm, and on his tongue. 

“Oh, fuck, Pat,” Jonny mutters, his face scrunching up, and his fists tightening in Patrick’s hair. 

Patrick’s not exactly experienced in the art of sucking dick; saliva drips down his chin from the corners of his mouth, and he has to slow down sometimes just to breathe, or keep his teeth from scraping Jonny, but Jonny’s hips are vibrating underneath his hands, and it only takes a minute for Jonny to jerk his hips back, knocking another book to floor, and come. Most of it gets on Patrick’s cheek, some in his mouth and some on his shirt. 

He makes a noise of complaint, but Jonny’s too blissed out to even notice.

 

Next week, Jonny’s grade point average squeaks past the 2.0 line, and as a reward, Jonny skips morning practice on Patrick’s day off, dragging him out for an actual date that doesn’t involve books or hockey mascots. But then, this is Jonny—hockey obsessed Jonny who’s been saying he wants to see Patrick on the ice since basically the first time they met, and Patrick isn’t really surprised at all when they pull up outside a community rink, and Jonny looks at him, tilting his head toward the rink like it’s a question.

Patrick just gets out of the car, says, “You’re paying for the skate rentals, dude.”

Patrick’s almost tentative getting on the ice. Jonny has his own skates, but Patrick doesn’t, and the rental skates are an old pair, painted obnoxiously bright orange. They feel strange on his feet, not quite the fit he’s used to, and the blades aren’t exactly sharp. But then, he could just be feeling nervous because he hasn’t been on the ice in so long.

He does a quick spin once he gets his feet under him though, grinning as the cold air hits him square in the face. 

“Who taught you to skate, your mom?” Jonny laughs at him, skating backwards a few feet in front of him.

“Shut up. It was my dad, actually,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes. “Well, my dad first, before he died, and then my grandpa.”

He doesn’t realize that Jonny doesn’t _know_ until saying it makes Jonny stumble and look up at him, expression alarmed. “Oh,” Jonny says, even as the high-pitched squeal of a little kid with her parents off to the other side of the rink sort of drowns him out. “Sorry, I didn’t… sorry.”

Patrick shrugs and keeps skating, catching up to Jonny pretty easily, “It’s alright. It happened a pretty long time ago. I was a kid.”

“What about your mom?”

“Yeah, her too,” Patrick says, a little sadly. He barely remembers them. “And my little sisters, uh, Jessica and Jaqueline. Uh,” he shakes himself out of it, “me and my other sister, Erica—we were at school, when it happened, so.” 

It’s an awkward pause between them, Jonny’s face doing this thing like he’s not sure what he should be saying, and Patrick feeling just as unsettled. He’d forgotten, somehow, that Jonny didn’t know. He coughs purposely, says, “And now you know my sob story, congratulations. But come on, you’re not this slow.”

He puts a few feet between them—it doesn’t matter how long it’s been, not really. Skating is like breathing.

It figures he’s just about to open his mouth to brag when he falls on his ass, the out-of-place toe pick on the tip of his skates tripping him up. He stares up at the ceiling in a daze for a second before he winces and Jonny comes into view, looking torn between guilty and amused. 

“Oh, shut up,” Patrick grumbles, and Jonny does end up laughing, even as he holds out a hand to help Patrick up. Feeling generous, Patrick tugs and before Jonny knows what’s hit him, he’s landing hard on the ice, right next to Patrick. Jonny shoves him as they race to get up, but Patrick hangs onto his sleeve and they sort of stand up using each other for balance. 

Despite the early fall, Patrick _does_ know how to skate, and he proves it by shooting across the ice, parting a group of kids and coming to a quick stop on the other side of the rink, lifting his arms high to wave obnoxiously at Jonny, who’s following at much more sedate pace, skating around the kids instead of through them. 

Patrick’s back bumps against the wall so that he can get out of the way of an elderly couple skating in a wide circle, but he mimes a sigh and looks at Jonny expectedly, before yelling, “Yo, Captain Serious. Hurry the fu—dge up.”

There’s a kid looking at him with wide eyes, clutching one of those metal-walker type things, and Patrick smiles at him, reminding himself to keep cursing to a minimum in public spaces. 

Jonny is shaking his head as he finally catches up, but they end up skating all over the rink together anyway, spinning through the kids—and occasionally helping them up, or once, dragging a little girl around because she asked if he could make her go fast like him—and narrowly avoiding collisions with other skaters when Patrick decides to try skating backwards, Jonny laughing at him the whole time. Jonny takes it as a challenge, so they race—backwards—from one end of the rink to the other, the kids cheering them on as they go. When they finally stop it’s because Jonny calls a time out, skating to the bench and sitting down with his skates up. 

Patrick follows, because yeah, he’s tired too, and cold even though he thinks he might be sweating a little. Jonny’s cheeks are red from the cold, the same way they always get after a hockey game at the university arena, but Patrick kind of thinks he’s stupidly cute that way anyway—although it’s better when he has the stupid-looking helmet marks on his forehead too. Completes the imagery. 

“This is fun,” Patrick says, nodding to himself. 

When he looks up at Jonny, he has this pleased look on his face, like he knows he’s done good. Patrick hits him in the shoulder. 

“Next time,” Jonny says, “we’ll scrimmage. I’ll go easy on you, don’t worry.”

Patrick can’t help the funny little jump in his stomach, kind of a swooping sensation, and he looks at Jonny seriously, before nodding, slowly. “Alright,” he says. He slips his hand into Jonny’s, wrapping their fingers together and smiling when Jonny squeezes his hand back. After a minute, he says, “Hey, Jonny, don’t go easy on me, okay?”

Jonny looks back at him, eyes clear, and nods. “Okay.”

He tugs Patrick up, pulling on his hand, “Come on, time for our next shift,” and Patrick makes a show of groaning and calling Jonny a slave driver, but he gets up anyway. This time they skate still holding hands, Jonny with a stupidly dumb smile on his face that Patrick is pretty sure looks the same as the one on _his_.

So, dating Jonny isn’t easy, and being back out on the ice isn’t easy, and neither is what Patrick was expecting when he left Buffalo for college, when he came to Chicago, but somehow that’s how it worked out, and Patrick can’t help but think maybe it was supposed to. Maybe he and Jonny were supposed to end up in Chicago together, studying and making out and fighting about hockey and skating until they can’t anymore.

He loves Erica, and his grandparents, and he misses them, but he thinks—

This is where he’s supposed to be.


End file.
